At last, in January, 1615, O'Neill resolved to undertake the enterprise himself, some Catholic noblemen in Italy and Belgium engaging to furnish him with funds. He was to quit Rome by a certain day; but, like all his other projects, this was speedily communicated to Trumbull, who lost no time in making it known to the English cabinet. He did not leave Rome as he intended; but two months later:
"The Belgian agent sent another dispatch to the king, informing him 'that O'Neill hath sent from Rome two of his instruments into Ireland, called Crone and Conor, with order to stir up factions and seditions in that kingdom, where, in Waterford alone, there are no less than thirty-six Jesuits.'"
Next we find the same vigilant English minister apprising his government that O'Neill was about "to have some of his countrymen employed at sea in ships of war, as pirates, with commission to take all vessels," etc. In truth, it was for England a genuine "Fenian" alarm, this constantly menacing attitude of the veteran warrior of the Blackwater; a "Fenian" alarm, alas! of two hundred and fifty years ago. And how many there have been since! There was also the same eager impatience for action, the same maddening thought that the work must be done at once or Ireland was lost for ever. A certain physician, who attended O'Neill in this year, 1615, writes to a friend in London, giving him, as a sample of his patient's conversation and manner, the following anecdote:
"Though a man would think that he is an old man by sight—no, he is lusty and strong, and well able to travel; for a month ago, at evening, when his frere [Footnote 19] and his gentlemen were all with him, they were talking of England and Ireland, and he drew out his sword. 'His majesty,' said he, 'thinks that I am not strong. I would he that hates me most in England were with me to see whether I am strong or no.' Those that were by said, 'We would we were with forty thousand pounds of money in Ireland, to see what we should do.' Whereon Tyrone remarked, 'If I be not in Ireland within these two years, I will never desire more to look for it.'"
[Footnote 19: F. Chamberlaine, O.S.F.]
So thought Sarsfield when he fled with the "Wild-geese" almost a century later—if they could not return with a reenforcement of French within one year, within two years, there was an end of Ireland. So thought Wolfe Tone, after still another century, as he was gnawing his own heart in Paris at the fatal delay, and crying, "Hell! hell! If that expedition did not sail at that moment, Ireland was subdued and lost for ever and ever." It is natural that the eager spirits of each generation of Irishmen should be in haste to see the great work done in their own day. But divine Providence is in no haste, and will not be hurried. Beyond all doubt, there is a destiny and a work in store for this Irish race, so wonderfully preserved through sore trials, and in spite of repeated persistent efforts to extirpate it utterly. It has a strong hold upon life, and a potent individual character. It will neither perish from the face of the earth nor forget a single tradition or aspiration, nor part with its ancient religious faith. It not only does not attorn to the dominant English sentiment and character, but seems, on the contrary, to become more antagonistic, and to cherish that antagonism.
And it is very notable that this desperate mutual repulsion between England and Ireland does not date from the "Reformation," nor does it altogether depend upon religious differences. It is true that the acceptance of the new religion by England and its rejection by the Irish furnished the former with a new pretext and a convenient machinery for oppression and plunder. But two centuries before this, Hugh O'Neill's time—and when the English were as Catholic as the Irish—we find his ancestor, Donal O'Neill, in his famous letter to Pope John XXII., describing the relations of the two races in language which is still appropriate at this day: "All hope of peace between us is completely destroyed; for such is their pride, such is their excessive lust of dominion, such our ardent desire to shake off this insupportable yoke, and recover the inheritance which they have so unjustly usurped, that as there never was, so there never will be, any sincere coalition between them and us; nor is it possible there should in this life; for we entertain a certain natural enmity against each other, flowing from mutual malignity, descending by inheritance from father to son, and spreading from generation to generation."
The aged Prince of Ulster never saw his native land again. In the following year, 1616, he became blind and, some weeks after, having received the last rites of the church, he died at the Salviati palace at Rome.